The Middle Days
by Eugenides1
Summary: Estel has grown up in Imladris, and it is now in the Enderi of his nineteenth year. With his father, brothers, and his closest friend Legolas, things have all begun to change. (A/L slash) Chapter six - In which Legolas and the twins have a *conversation*.
1. Unwelcome Messages

            Title: The Middle Days (Or Enderi, depending on your fondness for the Elvish calendar.)

            Pairing: Estel(Aragorn)/Legolas  (This is slash – uh, pre-slash.  Should be slash, eventually.  I'm a little slow.  Anyway, if you don't like it, don't read it.)

            Summary: Estel is nineteen years old, and has been raised by Lord Elrond (without either of his real parents) since he was little.  Doesn't remember them, doesn't know he's Aragorn.  Legolas has been staying with them since Estel was fourteen or fifteen.  Arwen – as I assume it actually went – is in Lórien, with her grandparents.  She has never met Estel.  Elladan and Elrohir are Estel's older brothers.  In the Elvish calendar, the Enderi fall around June or July, I think.  (Correct me if that's wrong.)

            Author's Notes:  I'm supposing most of these don't begin with the phrase 'I'm an idiot', but I really am.  When I asked for a beta I gave the wrong email address – even if anyone replied, I couldn't have gotten it.  (My actual email is eugenidesus@yahoo.com, and if you would still like to beta, email me there.)  Now to the notes with a point: This is slash – well, not yet.  Nothing graphic, or the rating would be higher.  I don't distinguish between Sindarin and Westron because everyone is speaking Sindarin.  There is only one language in this (so far), and I'm using English to represent it.  The next chapter will pick up exactly where this leaves off, so if the ending annoys you, that might be a reason.  (Might not, but I thought I'd offer it as a possibility.)  I welcome all compliments, complaints, and constructive abuse. ;-)

            It was the first day of the Enderi, or middle days, and a crisp breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in Imladris.  Firith would be coming soon, and the wind held promises of autumn and of a forest shining like a fire that went out only when winter came.  The Enderi were a favored time among the elves, and filled with revelry and laughter.  The great dining hall was bustling with activity as the evening's feast was prepared, and decanters of fine elven wine were placed at each table.  The palace's prized steeds were galloping through the verdant trees, spiriting their riders to the edge of the realm and back before the setting of the sun.  Already three parties had gone out, singing merrily of the forest paths.  Still other elves chose to wander the gardens or rest in the shade, and their chatter was lyrical to Elrond's ears.

The lord of Imladris stood quietly on the balcony of his study, one hand resting on the railing as he stared out over his kingdom.  His face was peaceful, and the papers he had been writing lay forgotten on his desk.  The study door was closed, and his guards were under strict orders to enter only if the news was urgent.  It was, after all, a holiday.  Smiling benignly, Elrond's eyes turned to the grounds below him – where the only four intimates left unaccounted for stood.  Royalty, all of them.  And yet children still, no matter their age or their station.  Three dark heads, and one light.  Two with daggers and two with bows.  One man, and three elves, all dressed in the robes of Imladris.

Elrond gazed attentively at the boys, the affection in his blue eyes betraying his inscrutable face.  Two of the elves – each one identical to the other – fought gracefully with Lórien daggers.  Elrond shook his head in amusement, knowing the duel would end in a draw.  Elladan and Elrohir – the swordsmen – could predict their opponent's every move: thrusts, parries, and fakes.  Such was the intuition of the twins, and it was much to their advantage in a true fight.  The other half of the young entourage faced a small target some 200 paces away, earnestly practicing their archery skills.

At first the two seemed to be in competition, but the theory was soon disproved as the pale haired lad – and the third elf – lifted his head to look at the young man beside him.  He set down his bow and – saying something that Elrond couldn't hear – moved behind his taller companion, molding himself against the man's back, gently correcting the mortal youth's posture.  Satisfied that his friend was now in the right position, the blonde elf stepped back and gave a sharp nod.  The boy loosed his arrow, and grinned as it struck the target near its center.  He turned to thank his teacher, but shrewd gray eyes flicked upward to catch sight of Elrond on the balcony.

Elrond sighed – over a dozen yeni spent learning to fade from view, and found by a boy – but was secretly pleased.  His foster son was a quick study.  Said foster son's face brightened considerably upon seeing Elrond, and unconsciously the lad straightened his shoulders and schooled his expression to remain neutral.  Elrond's nod of greeting was a little sad, for he knew why the boy tried so hard to be proper.  Growing up as a man among elves was a difficult thing, and the lad was always certain that he was unworthy of all that Elrond had given him.  Elrond could never explain that he was already proud to call the boy 'son', and that there was no standard he need measure up to.

Lifting a hand in acknowledgement, the youth cried excitedly, "Ada – Aran Elrond, watch this!"  Obediently, Elrond watched his mortal son nock a new arrow and ready his bow.  Inwardly, his heart tore.  The quick change from "father" to "lord" had not gone unnoticed.  Elrond's fist pounded softly on the rail, cursing the elf who had told his six year old foster son that it wasn't proper for a mere mortal to call the lord of Imladris "father".  The elf had been immediately banished to some other realm – where Elrond couldn't hunt him down – but the lesson had not been forgotten.  Now Aragorn – Estel, he corrected himself sharply.  The boy had his whole life to be Aragorn, and only a little time left as Estel of the elves. – Estel did not call Elrond "father" unless they were alone, as if it were a mark of disrespect on his part, for forgetting his place.

Belatedly Elrond realized that Estel had released the arrow, and managed to glance at the target just in time to see the quarrel stride it dead center.  Estel's eyes widened in surprise – he had not expected to succeed so well – and the blonde elf gave a gleeful whoop.  Legolas sounded more like a man every day, Elrond thought with a smile.  The elven prince was spending far too much time with Estel.  "Did you see, my lord?" the young man questioned eagerly, and in reply Elrond briefly applauded.

"The best I've ever seen," he declared, and Estel flushed with pleasure.  Any praise from his father was high praise indeed.

Always quick to take blame but share victory, Estel hurriedly replied, "When Legolas teaches me, I understand."  The blonde elf next to Estel shook his head in protest, he and Elrond's son arguing quietly.  Finally Legolas sighed, tilting his face to look at Elrond.

"Your son exaggerates, my lord," he told the elf lord with a modest smile, not noticing Estel's mortified face as Legolas publicly labeled him Elrond's son.  Elrond made a disbelieving noise at the prince's words, knowing that Legolas was by far one of the best archers Middle Earth had seen.  He had been teaching Estel for nigh on five years, and though the lad was no elf, he had proved an apt pupil.

"It makes me happy," Elrond told Legolas, then frowned as he heard footsteps coming toward his study.  He beckoned the crowd of royal youths upstairs, then strode in from the balcony in time to watch his wooden door flung brashly open.

A thin, brown haired elf entered without permission, and by his coloring and stature Elrond marked him instantly as a Mirkwood elf.  Their haughty temperament was a trait shared with the elves of Lothlórien, but the elves of Mirkwood – save Legolas – were generally of a darker complexion than their Goldenwood counterparts.  Elrond crossed his arms over his chest, regarding the elf in silent disapproval.  "I am the messenger of King Thranduil of Mirkwood," the intruder solemnly declared, swallowing hard under Elrond's withering gaze.  "He wishes his –"

Just as the messenger elf began speaking four bodies slid gracefully – though somewhat loudly – through the study's open door.  Estel and Legolas were in the lead, and stopped so quickly that Elladan ran into his foster brother's back.  Estel stumbled, and Legolas gripped his friend's arm tightly.  The messenger of Mirkwood gaped at this display of unseemly behavior – reserving an especially disdainful glare for the man in the group.  Estel returned the glare with an imperturbable gaze that would have down his foster father proud – and did.  "Continue," the lord of Imladris commanded tersely, recalling the visiting elf to his task.

Much to Elrond's consternation and Legolas' embarrassment, the envoy did not kneel as he relayed the contents of his message.  "The good King Thranduil has requested that his youngest son be returned to Mirkwood immediately," the elf said, still glowering at Estel.  Legolas' pale face had gone white, and he gripped Estel's arm so tightly Elrond feared it would leave a bruise.  Elrond's twin sons made varying sounds of protest, silenced by their father's level gaze.

Legolas' voice was faint and disbelieving.  "Nay," the young prince choked out, "'Tis not possible.  I was sent here."  Hearing his companion's lost tone, Estel wasted no time in covering Legolas' white knuckled hand with his own.

The messenger – who was beginning to grate on Elrond's nerves – sneered.  "You were sent for a visit, prince," the brunette elf reminded, "And the king has determined that five years is time enough."  He eyed man and elf suspiciously.  "None too soon, I think.  We've been hearing things about your 'visit'," added the messenger, the ugly insinuations clear in his inflection.

It took Estel all of one breath the advance on the smaller elf, fury blazing in his grey eyes.  Despite his disdain the messenger trembled.  "You," whispered the young man softly, dangerously and – to the envoy's astonishment – in fluent Sindarin, "Are a messenger of Thranduil."  The absence of the liege's title did not go unnoticed, but Estel did no disgrace.  "As servant to such a magnificent king, you have no doubt been taught at least the rudiments of elven courtesy."  This was a deliberate insult, for elven envoys underwent years of diplomatic training – and Estel knew it.  "Thus, you should know that for a foreign envoy to remain standing in the presence of a sovereign is at worst a declaration of war, or – if the sovereign is magnanimous – a blatant disregard of their position."  The messenger's lips were little more than a line across his face; for he knew what the boy said was true.  If Elrond chose, he could take arms against Mirkwood and the law would be of his side.  "Since you must be aware of this," Estel continued smoothly, and Elrond made a note to praise the lad's diplomacy tutor, "And as you are not kneeling, I feel that it is my duty to inform you that the elf you have been speaking to is Lord Elrond of Imladris, son of Eärendil and Elwing Peredhil."  One hand gestured at the silent lord, and the messenger's eyes unwillingly followed.  "With him –" for Elladan and Elrohir had stepped forward "- are his sons, and their mother Celebrían is the daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel of Lórien."  The Mirkwood elf swallowed, and Estel's voice began to portray his true anger.  "Finally," he said tightly, "There is the prince of Mirkwood, who you appear to have recognized."  Then Estel's dagger was in his hands, the glittering blade pressing against the elf's throat.  Legolas cried his name as both he and Elrond stepped forward in alarm.  "I feel, sir," Estel hissed, "That it is also my obligation to warn you that anyone – be they elf, man, dwarf, hobbit, or _orc_ – who speaks ill of the prince will not live long enough to know whose blades have killed them."  So saying this, Estel flicked the dagger up, drawing a pearl of blood from the elf's pale skin.

"Enough!" shouted Elrond even as Legolas reached his companion, pulling Estel back by his sword arm.

"Thank you, friend," the prince of Mirkwood murmured quietly, his words soothing Elrond's tense son.  Estel put away his dagger and slipped his hand into Legolas'.

"I will die before I hear you profaned," he swore ardently, not bending to the gentle reproach in Legolas' eyes. The elven archer elf Estel's hand tightly, and reprimand changed to understanding.  "As would I for you," he admitted, and Elrond almost smiled to hear them.  For five years the two had been inseparable, and he was starting to wonder if they would ever fall in love.  Thranduil and his messenger had come very close to ruining half a decade of anticipation – not to mention the wager he had going with Glorfindel.

Glowering sternly, the lord of the palace turned on the envoy, who was anxiously rubbing his neck.  Upon finding Elrond in front of him, he hurriedly dropped to one knee, stuttering, "My lord, I meant no –"

Waving one hand dismissively, Elrond cut him off.  "Silence," he ordered, and the whole room readily complied.  "I think, envoy of Thranduil, that you have forgotten your place.  Legolas Greenleaf has reached the age of majority, and is therefore entitled to make his own decisions.  You will hear now what he says and deliver the reply to his father.  If he wishes to return with you we will provide an escort for you to do so."  Raising his eyebrows loftily at the shaken messenger – who didn't dare protest – Elrond nodded at Legolas to speak.  "Prince," he prompted, already knowing what the lad's answer would be.

Legolas looked down at the guard of his father's house, but did not release Estel's hand.  "You may tell my father that – though I am grateful to hear from him – I choose to remain here for awhile longer."  Estel's fingers squeezed Legolas' firmly, and the elf glanced back at his friend with a smile.  "Please give my family my regards," he told the messenger sincerely, and though the kneeling elf looked displeased with his prince's decision, there was little he could do.  As Elrond had pointed out, Legolas was of age.

Scowling, the envoy ignored Elrond's offer to stay and feast with them, and had soon stomped out of the small room and – hopefully – back to his own kingdom.  The four children glowered menacingly after him, and Elrond had to stifle laughter when he caught sight of the face Elrohir was making at their departing guest.

To be continued in next chapter . . .  (Anti-climactic music here.)


	2. Of the Heart

Disclaimer: (Which should head chapter one, but apparently I briefly forgot that Tolkien is dead and I'm not his reincarnation.)  So yeah, not mine.

Author's Notes: And here we have chapter two.  Picks up right where chapter one left off.  Thank you to **goldmund**, **liss**, and **Aenigma** for reviewing!  

~*~

Focusing on more important matters, the lord of Imladris gazed regally at his youngest son.  And – a mere mortal or not – Estel met his foster father's eyes squarely and without shame.  Elrond sighed.  It was going to be hard to reprimand the boy for doing what they had all desired to do.  "Estel –" he said chastisingly, before being interrupted by the twin closest to him.

"-of the elves," Elrohir stated solemnly, eyes twinkling.  Elrond would have lived with the dwarves before letting his son know that had been exactly what he was going to say.

Elladan took on the dialogue with a smile, looking sternly at his foster brother.  "Today you have disgraced all of Imladris in front of a stranger," the elder twin told him, in a rather good imitation of their father.  Estel flushed, but delight danced in his grey eyes.

"What will the elves of Mirkwood think of us now?" questioned Elrohir in mock despair.  It was Elladan who answered, his words sincere as he deviated from his father's script.

"They will think," he said to Elrond, "That we defend our friends, and are merciful to upstart envoys."  Elrond bit his cheek, Legolas laughed aloud, and Estel snorted in suppressed amusement.

Elrohir – who had been pacing – stopped beside his identical brother, slinging an arm over Elladan's shoulders.  "They will think that we are fools for taking in a mortal," and Elrohir rolled his eyes,  "But be comforted by the knowledge that he would die for their prince."  Elladan nodded agreeably, and Estel and Legolas confirmed the declaration silently with their eyes, lifting their clasped hands in oath.

"They will –" finished Elladan contently "-send a letter protesting the treatment of their messenger and the captivity of Prince Legolas."

Elrohir interjected: "Which you will not show to Estel," and Elladan wrapped an arm around his interrupting brother.

"Then you will send them a reply that vaguely promises to burn their forest to ashes if they so much as try to remove Legolas against his will."  Elrond thought perhaps it was time his sons visited Lórien and analyzed their grandparents for awhile, instead of their father.

"Thranduil will apologize," the younger twin said knowingly, and Legolas blushed.  Rash and foolish or not, Thranduil was his father.

"And Legolas will stay here!" chorused the twins together, dancing gleefully in a circle around Estel and Legolas.

"Gladly," the prince of Mirkwood agreed, and Estel grinned.  Elrond rubbed his temples, wondering at his sons' excess of energy.  Just thinking of the coming argument with Thranduil made him tired.

Estel's ever watchful eyes saw the flicker of exhaustion on his father's face, and – releasing Legolas' hand – he caught one twin by each shoulder.  "Come," he commanded, steering his brothers to the door, "Lord Elrond is weary of us, and we must dress for supper."  Elladan and Elrohir looked indignant at the thought that anyone could weary of them, but obediently let their younger –and taller – foster brother direct them out of the room.  A chorus of, "Namarië, ada"'s followed their departure, and – linking arms – the twin elves went skipping down the hall like high spirited colts.

Bowing respectfully, Legolas and Estel also moved to leave, but Elrond beckoned his youngest child back.  "I would have a word with you, Estel," he said tonelessly, bringing both lads to a halt.  "Legolas will see you at the feast," Elrond told them, and the blonde elf recognized it as his dismissal.  Begging his leave from Elrond, Legolas turned to Estel and the two – in a tradition so long forgotten that even Elrond could barely recall it – clasped forearms and briefly kissed.  Elrond had vague memories of the custom, but since it had vanished – or so he had thought – at the end of the first age, his knowledge was unclear.  He knew the symbolism: brothers in arms, friends of the heart, but was curious as to where two boys had learned such a thing.

"You wanted something, milord?" queried Estel hesitantly, breaking Elrond from his reverie and returning his attention to his son.  Estel – though he was mortal – so closely resembled Elrond's two sons that visiting elves often asked the lord if there was not some close relation between the boys.  Elrond replied firmly that they were brothers, and his guests knew better than to disagree.

"You were rash, today," he told the young man bluntly, watching Estel's hands clench at his sides, shame and anger warring on his face.

He spoke only after he had reined in his emotions, and though his words were defiant they were uttered calmly.  "He insulted Legolas," said Elrond's son softly, still looking as though he wished to throttle the messenger elf.

Elrond's reply was sharp.  "There are better ways to defend your friends that to attack an unarmed opponent," the lord of Imladris chastised, his voice cutting.  Estel bowed his head in humiliation, and Elrond had to quell the urge to comfort his young son.  Shoulders slumped, Estel mumbled an apology for his misbehavior, and promised to write King Thranduil a letter stating the same.  Ignoring the regretful words, Elrond studied his son avidly, pale hair falling across his face as he tilted his head to one side.  When he received no answer, Estel lifted his head to find himself staring directly at his foster father.  "I wonder," the regal elf murmured thoughtfully, "What it is you truly feel for Legolas, that makes you care so much."  Estel's face grew flushed, and he looked away in what Elrond strongly feared was shame.  "Estel?" he questioned gently, probing the young man staring sadly past the balcony.

Upon hearing his father's voice, his grey eyes flickered closed.  "Please don't tell him," Estel begged desperately, ruddy face tense with grief.  And Elrond was momentarily relieved that this lad was no elf, for grief such as that would surely kill him.

"Why do you say nothing?" Elrond queried, his heart aching for his youngest child.

Estel's response was fierce and full of self-loathing.  "He is Legolas: kind and wise and beautiful, and I – I am no more than myself.  I will not give him the dishonor of a love such as mine."  And so it all came back to the six-year-old boy, Elrond thought sorrowfully, the one who was told he deserved none of the affection given him.  It was the young child who heard his beloved older brother mutter, "I give up.  Men _are _hopeless," after a particularly bad sword practice.  This was the boy who had fallen in love with his best friend, and – though Legolas had never made a single gesture of contempt toward Estel – there was no doubt in the young man's mind of his unworthiness.

Cursing every elf that had convinced his son of this, Elrond drew the lad against him and let the boy's bitter tears stain his robes.  "Ai, Estel," he said tenderly, embracing his foster son.  Estel wept with all the passion of youth, but they were true tears and broke Elrond's heart.  If only the boy could see himself as they saw him – but Estel would no sooner believe such things about himself than believe that Legolas loved him.

Before the lord could pursue that thought Estel pulled away, wiping his damp cheeks with his sleeves.  "I am sorry, Father," the boy whispered, sounding as if he were sorry for more than simply bursting into tears.

Elrond's ears were sharp, and his reply almost a rebuke.  "Never be sorry for loving someone, Estel.  There is no shame in that."  Estel nodded obediently, but would not meet his father's pale eyes.  Elrond caught his son's chin with one cool hand, tilting the young face up to meet his, blue eyes boring gently into stormy grey.  "Has Legolas not proven his loyalty to you?" he questioned fiercely, "Have not we all?"  Estel was a man, and Elrond knew that his was a race skilled in deceiving, but the boy had been raised with elves and knew how to answer with nothing but the truth.

"Legolas has been teacher and friend since our first meeting," Estel admitted sincerely, "And I could ask for no greater devotion than that he has given me."  Son gazed unyieldingly at father, and Elrond saw steadfastness, sorrow, and love in his child's shadowed eyes.  "I _will_ ask for no more," Estel swore, and Elrond knew that no argument would sway the boy before him.  The youth would take his secret to the grave, if he thought that by doing so he spared Legolas even the smallest increment of pain or embarrassment.  It was a noble, unselfish act, and it tore at Elrond's heart.

He brushed immortal fingers over Estel's rough cheek, and the boy stood silent and unflinching beneath his father's touch.  Elrond found it ironic that it was this child – this mortal, fleeting man – who was most like him.  Elladan and Elrohir were laughter and gaiety, as their mother had been, and all three had often reminded him of the playful summer breezes.  Arwen, his only daughter, had been raised in Lothlórien, and was the image of her grandmother Galadriel in all but face.  And Estel – who was truly not Elrond's son at all, but the son of Arathorn II and of the Dúnedain, and of all Gondor – stood apart, commanding but kind, respectful but aloof.  Elrond could see himself reflected in the boy's dignified bearing, the graceful way he stood as both king and servant.  It was this that made him feel the weight of the lad's silence on his shoulders, for if Estel had taken after his brothers Legolas would have already been told, and if he were as his foster sister the emotion would have been dismissed as frivolous.  But he was as his father, and so guarded the love he knew was precious, and said nothing to spare the one he cared for.

"Ai," Elrond sighed, feeling suddenly very tired, cradling his son's head with one hand, "my son.  I would that you did not bear this burden."

Estel's smile was faint and fleeting, dancing lightly over his lips and fading into the depths of his faze.  "Do not wish for such a thing, Father," he said, facing the older elf without regret, "For I would not for all of Middle Earth forsake my love for Legolas.  If it be my burden, then I bear it willingly and with joy.  It is my gift to him," Estel told his father, his young face open and unguarded.  He spoke the truth, and Elrond moved his hand to rest on the man's sturdy shoulder, knowing that it was indeed strong enough to carry such a weight.

"A gift ungiven," he chastised gently, trying futilely to change Estel's mind.  His son only smiled, forgiving his father's rebuke with wise eyes.

"Can not a light drive away the darkness, even if its flame is unseen?" he responded, and Elrond saw that he was defeated.

Pressing lightly on Estel's shoulder, the boy quickly kneeled in front of his father, gazing up into the smooth, elven face.  "My son," Elrond murmured softly, regarding the boy through half-closed eyes.  "You are almost grown, and still know so little of your true heritage."  If the abrupt change of subject startled him, Estel did not show it.

"I will hear of it when you see fit to tell me, milord," the young mortal replied demurely, and there was no resentment in his tone over secrets kept.

"So patient," mused the elf lord thoughtfully, "Do you not wish to know of your past?"  The comment was said half in jest, but Estel's tightened jaw showed that it had struck close to the mark.  It took the boy a moment longer to answer, but he spoke frankly.

"I am happy here," he told the elf above him, "Where I may sit at your table and live beneath your roof.  I wish for nothing more."  The unspoken words hung heavy in the silence, for Estel was quick enough to know that if his heritage were not of enough import to remove him from Imladris than it would have already been revealed to him.  And it was worse for Elrond, who knew already how far away destiny would steal this boy he called his son.  It was a separation they accepted without words, imminent but not permanent, for Estel's true home was the palace he knelt in.

"Your father was a good man," offered Elrond consolingly, images of Arathorn II flooding his ageless mind.  Estel's contradiction was full of loyalty, and love.

"My father is indeed good," he agreed coyly, "But he is no man.  He is Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, and I am proud to be a servant in his household."  Elrond shook his head, but did not attempt to hide the upward curve of his lips as he drew Estel to his feet.

"Not a servant," he corrected, "But a son."  The boy's smile surpassed his own, and the two embraced.  Gripping the youth's shoulders, Elrond looked steadily into his eyes and promised solemnly, "No matter where your fate may take you, Estel of the elves, remember that you will always have a seat at my table, and a place to rest your head."  He kissed his youngest son briefly on the forehead, saw the gratitude in the boy's grey eyes before he turned and strode away, leaving his father to his thoughts.  The study door thudded softly closed, and Elrond tried to ignore the sharp ache in his heart.  It was a cruel trick, he thought bitterly, that it would be his youngest child lost to him.  A brutal twist of fate, to give him a boy whom he'd never intended to love, and to make them so similar that he no longer needed a mirror to see his own reflection.  Twenty short years as father to a mortal child, and the rest of eternity as a parent grieving the loss of his smallest son.  Three children – beautiful, elven children that so resembled their mother – were his by blood, and one tall, dark man who was not really his at all, but who he had claimed as son.  Who he loved.  In punishment, it seemed, for loving a mortal fate was taking him away.  Elrond feared that one day he would stand before a marble tomb and look upon the still features of his youngest son.  He feared it because he knew it to be truth, and the grief of it would surely kill him.  And, alone in his study, Elrond wept.

To be continued in chapter three, The Feast . . .


	3. The Feast

            Title: The Middle Days, Chapter Three

Author's Notes:  Thank you to **Vampire Poet**, **di**, **dshael**, **lady heledriel**, **annakas**, **Nikki**, **dark angel**, **Mercuria**, **goldmund**, **keisha**, **lilypotter**, **Andrea**, **katsuai**, **VampyrLavinia**, **cynical**, and **Lady Osolone** for reviewing. Phew!  I loved all the feedback.  And a special thanks to **Riley**, who did a wonderful job beta'ing for me.  As for the questions: **liss** – actually, when I said 'pale hair' in the last chapter I was referring to Elrond and not Estel, but thank you for noticing.  **Aenigma** – Estel's nineteen, nearly old enough to be told the truth of his heritage.

~*~

            Dinner was a lavish event – as was the custom on the Enderi minui – and the long tables were draped with finely embroidered white cloths, groaning beneath the weight of an elven feast.  Imladris was famous for its banquets, and Estel was not surprised to find himself surrounded by elves from realms even more distant than Mirkwood and Lórien.  He produced quite a bit of interest as – for some of their guests – the only man they had seen behave so like an elf.  One of the visitors, who Estel named as one of Haldir's brothers by his face, was currently rubbing his palm against the mortal's cheek, fascinated by the faint stubble that grew there.  It bothered Estel less than it would have other men, for he was well accustomed to the forwardness of elves, but he was rather wishing he had remembered to shave before coming down.  He would have moved away, but for the fact that his path was blocked by the young maiden elf amusing herself by braiding his dark hair.  Estel sighed, praying to wake up and discover this a nightmare.

Then a slender hand grasped his with a strength that would have surprised most, leading Estel safely away from his unwanted admirers.  He exhaled in relief, and opened his eyes to find Legolas laughing at him.  Confused, Estel cocked his head and stared blankly at his friend.  The elf prince chuckled lightly.  "You look very pretty tonight, Estel," he teased, reaching out and tugging on his friend's long hair.  Frowning worriedly, the young man lifted a tentative hand to his coal dark tresses, groaning audibly as his fingers caught on the woven strands.

"Becursed elf maids," he grumbled, causing Legolas to laugh harder, and fumbled with the tangled braids, only making the knots worse.  Lithe, archer's fingers batted his clumsy hands away and diligently set to unweaving the braided hair, green eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Do not be so hasty in cursing, Estel," his friend recommended with a smirk, "for I fear that you will someday find yourself enchanted by one of these very maids you now abhor."  Having said so, Legolas quickly raked his hand through Estel's dark hair, making certain that all the tangles were gone.  Estel's reply was serious, and his smile wistful.

"Your fears are unfounded, my friend," he told Legolas quietly, his solemnity drawing the elf's anxious gaze.

"Do you swear off love, then?" the prince questioned perplexedly, his tone a little sad.  Estel shook his head, refuting his friend's words.

"No, for how can I hide from that which has already made me its captive?"  Legolas' green eyes widened, and he was silent for so long that Estel feared he had offended.

"You are in love?" Legolas asked disbelievingly, blinking at Estel with an unreadable expression.  In a trait he had learned from his father, Estel sighed.  There was no denying such a thing, he knew, but Legolas would surely want to know more than Estel was willing to tell.  Sometimes the truth hurt more than the silence.

"Aye," Estel admitted, and Legolas gaped at him.  Then the elf's eyes glowed with pleasure, and he caught Estel's hands in his own and went dancing merrily around the crowded room.

"That is wonderful," he cried, spinning them lightly around.  Estel watched in quiet adoration the way the evening light shone on Legolas' golden hair, and made the elf prince flicker with a faint light of his own.  "What maid is this," queried Legolas curiously, "that has stolen your heart from me?"  He smiled at Estel to show that he jested, but the young man was not blind to the hurt hidden in his friend's beautiful face.

"No one could take me from you, my friend," Estel reassured, and Legolas broke into a true grin, then.  If only he knew how true the oath was, Elrond's foster son thought sadly, then pushed the thought away.  Some secrets were not meant to be told.

"Of course not," Legolas agreed, "I'd send an arrow through their heart."  Estel laughed as the two headed over to their chairs.

"You would not," he argued, and Legolas pouted in defeat.

"Perhaps not," the elf prince said cheerfully, "I'd only tie them to the nearest tree like I did with Haldir."  That recollection made Estel laugh so much that his stomach ached, for it was not often that one saw the Guardian of the Golden Wood bound by his wrists to the lowest branch of an Imladris tree, a blonde prince smirking beside him.  Legolas had been teaching Estel the advantages of ambushing your opponent, and decided to show them in action.  Estel had learnt that not only did startling the enemy would very nicely, but that Haldir knew a great many words he did not use around his queen.  The Lórien elf had fallen quickly silent when Legolas told him levelly that if he did not stop cursing in front of Estel they were going to gag him.  Legolas' lessons had always been the most interesting, Estel thought dryly, looking up just in time to see the hall fall silent as his father entered.

The lord of Imladris was dressed simply, in almost the same silken robes as his children, but his presence alone was enough to silence the entire room.  They regarded the elf lord with awe – even those that had met Elrond before – and one elf made a gesture Estel recognized as the homage of a soldier to his commander.  He must have served under Elrond during the Last Alliance, Estel thought abstractly, and made a note to try to speak to the elf after the feast.  He loved to hear the elves tell stories of his father during the War.  Next to Círdan, Estel believed Elrond had been the one responsible for saving Arda from the dark lord.  If only Isildur had listened to their counsel, the boy thought despairingly, then shuddered.  Estel hated Elendil's fallen son, loathed him for his weakness and greed and . . . humanity.  Círdan would have had the strength to destroy the ring, Estel knew, as would Elrond, or even Legolas, if the task had fallen to him.  But Estel didn't know the measure of his own strength, remained unassured that he could have conquered where the wielder of Narsil had failed.  He was certain only that he despised Isildur, and would do all that he could to never become such a man.

Sensing the youth's turmoil, Legolas gripped his hand comfortingly, though the elf prince's green eyes stayed respectfully fixed on Elrond.  Starting guiltily at his inattentiveness, Estel looked up only in time to see his foster father take his seat at the head of the table, directly on the lad's right.  Traditionally Elrohir should have sat at Elrond's left as his second son, but he preferred to sit beside Elladan so the chair had been given to Estel.  Upon Leoglas' arrival five years past the left hand place had been accorded to him – a royal guest in the Peredhil house – but as the prince's "brief" visit wore on he returned the chair to Elrond's foster son.  And if it annoyed some of the elves to see a man feasting beside their lord, they knew better than to speak of it aloud.  Lifting his brimming wine glass high into the air, the lord of Imladris made the toast of the Enderi and commanded the feasting to begin.  Clinking glasses and hearty cheers revealed that it had been a suggestion well taken.  Estel stared hard at his father, wondering if it was only the evening light that made the elf lord look so sorrowed.  Sorrowed and fatigued, ethereal aura slightly worn, as if Elrond's soul had been dimmed.  A quick glance at Legolas' worried face proved that it was not simply the way the light fell on Elrond's face.

Leaning forward, the young mortal caught the lord's left hand in both of his, causing Elrond to look up in surprise.  Estel took advantage of the brief instant that their eyes met, and spoke without thought.  "I love you, Father," he whispered, forgetting that it was wrong for him to call Elrond "father" when they were not alone, forgetting – in fact – that there was anyone else in the hall but the two of them.  His father's smile seemed to brighten the whole room, and the sadness that had hung heavy round the elf was dispelled.

"Thank you, my son," Elrond replied softly, squeezing the rough hand beneath his.  And it was as if his father's sadness had been no more than a vision of Estel's dreaming mind, and never existed at all as Elrond smiled and chatted lightly with an elf visiting from Lórien.  Estel blinked and hastily rubbed his eyes, which made the elf beside him snicker.  Turning, the young man glared indignantly at his amused companion.  Legolas gripped Estel's forearm, bending his head to the mortal's ear.

"It would seem," the fair-haired elf murmured kindly, "That your skills in healing encompass not only the body, but the heart as well."  Estel blushed, though at the compliment or the feel of Legolas' breath on his ear it could not be told.  Berating himself for letting his emotions show so clearly, the mortal lad closed his face and gave his friend an unthinking response, ignoring the bewildered and slightly hurt look that Legolas gave him.

Confessing his feelings to Elrond, Estel worried, must have caused them to surface more easily than usual.  He was accustomed to keeping them well hidden, for he had been in love with the elven prince for two years and none – save now his father – knew of it.  That was the way it should be, Estel reminded himself sharply.  The elven prince could never hear of the regard that his friend held for him, would never hear of it if Estel had a choice.  They were best friends – closer even, than brothers – and the young man would not ruin that bond simply because he desired Legolas as a lover, as a mate.  He had decided that long ago, when he had first realized the true depth of his emotion for the beautiful elf.  Sometimes, though, when Estel could not sleep, he went wandering wraith like down the deserted palace halls and through the darkened forest paths of his elven home.  And as he trod sleepless in the shadows of the moon, his unsettled mind would dream of passion dark emerald eyes and a lither, slender body pressed achingly close to his, of lips and tongue clashing in a heated kiss.  And sometimes, when there was no moon to see him, he would dream that Legolas loved him.  That somehow the prince of Mirkwood could love one so far beneath him, so repulsive to his kind.  But thoughts such as those were foolery, Estel knew, and so shook them away to be remember late at night, when he was alone.

For even now Legolas bent his head to converse with him, wondering why he had not yet touched his sumptuous plate.  "Is it your love that troubles you?" questioned the archer hesitantly, and Estel could see that the subject preyed yet on his friend's mind.  There was a frown sharpening Legolas' delicate face, and Estel berated himself for putting it there.

"Does it bother you," he anxiously asked, laying a hand over his friend's, "that I am in love?"  Legolas hastily shook his head – too hastily, in fact, for Estel to believe him – then offered an apologetic smile when he caught sight of Estel's skeptical gaze.

"I am sorry, Estel," he said hurriedly, trying to remove the offense he nay have given his companion.  "'Tis not that I disapprove," he explained slowly, cocking his head thoughtfully as he spoke, "Merely . . ." Legolas trailed off, unwilling to say aloud the things that Estel could read in his eyes.  It had been he and Legolas for the past five years, and the elf feared that this would mean change, would spell the end of their solidarity.  Don't you see, Estel thought sadly, that that is why I keep silent?  Can't you see that by saying nothing for two long years I have saved us both?  But of course Legolas could not understand, for he did not know that it was he who Estel loved.  Sighing softly, Legolas lifted his eyes to the clear grey gaze before him and smiled steadily.  "What are they like," he asked curiously, "this elf that has ensnared your wild heart, my friend?"

Estel looked long and hard at Legolas before replying, with a tender voice, "They are lovelier than the dawn, and yet remain humble and kind.  They are gentle yet passionate, with a soul so beautiful that it makes the sun seem dim."  Estel stopped, biting his lip to keep any more poetry from pouring forth.  He sounded like a lovesick churl instead of a nearly grown man.  Legolas, however, listened attentively to Estel's description, but protested as his friend continued, "far too good for me, at any rate."  Estel saw the protest brewing in the prince's eyes even before his lips began to move.

"I think," the elf prince murmured unhappily, "that your looking glass must bear a stain, Estel Peredhil, for though you bear the features of a man and not an elf, you are handsomer than any other in these halls."  Estel's reply was a distinctly dubious glance, but Legolas persisted fervently.  "It is true!" he declared, emerald eyes ardent, and Estel felt himself blushing.  "You _are_ handsome.  Your bearing is as graceful as any elf's, and your body –" even Legolas, as an uninhibited elf and Estel's closest friend flushed a delicate red as he tried to put his thoughts into words.  Finally he gave up, and gripped Estel's muscular upper arm to demonstrate.  "- is more sold than those of the First-born.  Closer to the earth."  Pleased that Estel seemed to have understood his explanation, Legolas continued.  Elrond's son studiously attempted to ignore the firm grasp the elf prince had on his arm.  "Your eyes are like your brothers – but darker, as if you know a secret that you will not tell."  Legolas' slight frown revealed that Estel's secret keeping had not gone unnoticed.  "And your hair –" the blonde elf grinned "- well, I believe it very lovely when all done up in braids."  Estel glared at him and Legolas laughed aloud.

Shaking his head, the young man silenced the prince.  "Enough," he demanded, but he was smiling.  "I believe you have extolled all my charms, Legolas."  The older one of them shook his flaxen head in fierce denial.

"Ai, but I have not yet mentioned your skills at tracking – or with a sword – your fondness of nature, your wisdom, your passion, your devotion, your –" a large hand descended over Legolas' rapidly moving mouth, muffling the compliments issuing quickly from it.  Looking annoyed, the mute elf purposefully stuck out his tongue and licked the palm of his friend's hand.  Estel found it necessary to remind himself that shuddering in delight was _not_ an acceptable response to such a gesture.  The youth hastily removed his hand, and the mouth he uncovered curved slowly up into an elven smirk.  "Does my tongue offend thee, milord?" asked Legolas slyly, the double meaning of he words gleaming clearly in his rakish gaze.  The bested mortal sighed defeatedly, thrilling to hear the triumphant laughter on the striking elf's lips.

When Legolas' mood was playful it seemed as though all of Imladris could not help but smile.  Estel loved Legolas' laugh, loved watching his friend's clear green eyes sparkle with joy.  Most of Rivendell knew the companion of Elrond's sons as a cheerful, carefree sort of child, naïve and happy.  But Estel was confidante as well as companion, and knew that Legolas' cheer was often no more than a sweet ruse to hide himself behind.  The prince was not as untouched by life as he had others believe, and Estel was one of few who knew of the sadness that lingered back of his friend's smiling eyes.  He saw it flicker there now, tainting the edges of Legolas' golden smile, and wished nothing more than to be rid of the other festers so that the elf could unburden his heart to his friend.  However, Estel knew that leaving the table so soon was not an option – they were royalty, both, and first of their duties was to their people and not themselves.  Secret sharing would have to wait.  For now, there was roasted pheasant to eat and elven wine to be drunken.  And drink they did.

To be continued in Chapter Four (whose title I have yet to figure out).


	4. A Brief Interlude

            Chapter Four: A Brief Interlude on the Dangers of Drinking Too Much Elvish Wine.

Author's Notes:  Thank you to everyone for reviewing!  I'm grateful to you all, but since I'm figuring you don't have this desperate need to have your names emblazoned in bold print at the top of this fic – feel free to tell me if you _want_ your name up here - I'm going to skip personal thanks and get to the story a little quicker.  However a quick thank you to **Riley** for reminding me that the sun is a 'she' in the elvish tongue.  (And for beta-ing.)

~*~

            Perhaps, considered Estel thickly a few hours later, he'd overdone it with the wine.  He hadn't meant to have so much, but some stodgy elf at their table kept talking and talking about clothes – or was it his toes? – and the wine had made him ever so much more interesting.  Plus, Legolas looked so very pretty, and drinking distracted Estel from trying to kiss his best friend.  Now Legolas was part of a colorful fog and Estel was reminded vaguely of the time Elrohir had dunked him in a river.  Except this time he wasn't cold . . . and there was no water.  Lord Elrond was talking now, and Estel was certain that his father would have been much more interesting than the boring elf with toes, if only Estel could understand what he was saying.  Estel decided to find Legolas – who was very learned – and maybe he could explain Elrond's speech.

Looking over to his left, the child of Imladris was startled to find two Legolases, and both of them were wiggling back and forth.  Estel blinked, and the identical blonde heads turned to stare at him.  "Legolas," he said to the closer one, his tongue proving very difficult to maneuver, "why did you never tell me you had a twin?"  The Legolases laughed, then rose to their feet, going from two to one and again to two.  The whole thing made Estel very dizzy, and he stared at the floor to clear his head.  He was beginning to feel a little nauseous, and the multiplying Legolases were _not_ helping.  How nice, though, to have two of them.  A firm hand hauled Estel to his feet, and he swayed unsteadily for a moment while one of the Legolases – where had the other one gone? – slipped under Estel's arm, supporting most of his friend's weight on his deceptively slender shoulders.

"I think," Legolas grunted, still trying to adjust to Estel's weight, "that it is time we take you to bed."  Estel thought that sounded like a delightful idea, and had planned to do just that as soon as the room stopped spinning.  The room, however, did not seem to be cooperating, and the feel of Leoglas' body pressed against his was proving a rather welcome distraction.

"All right," the young man murmured sleepily, yawning.  "Are you coming?"  Legolas chuckled again – that was a very nice sound, thought Estel hazily – and answered the question by propelling them both forward, pausing only to collect a small vial from Elrond.  The lord of Rivendell also seemed amused, and his foster son wondered why.

"Come now," Legolas prodded gently, wrapping a steadying arm around his friend's waist.  Estel found they made much better progress if he kept his eyes closed – and the tapestries were beginning to look very threatening.  The pleasantly sleepy youth discovered that his head was becoming unnaturally heavy, and dropped it gratefully to Legolas' shoulder, burying his face in the archer's silken tresses.

"Pretty hair," he mumbled, sniffing as it tickled his nose.  "Soft, pretty hair."  Legolas bit out a hasty, "thank you," that sounded almost as if the prince was suppressing laughter.  Estel pondered the idea for a minute, but found that thinking took far too much effort and so stopped trying.  Inhaling happily, he wrapped both arms possessively around Legolas' slim waist, nearly pulling the archer off balance with his embrace.  "My elf," he declared solemnly, liking the feel of the delicate being in his hold.  Finding a sliver of skin uncovered by Legolas' tunic, Estel experimentally brushed his thumb across it.  The beautiful prince shivered beneath the light touch, and his answering words were a little sad.

"I fear you mistake me for someone else," murmured the elf softly, his voice tinged with something that Estel's blurry mind could not understand.  Startled, he opened his grey eyes and squinted hard at the elven prince.

Gold hair, leaf green eyes, smooth, pale skin – it _was_ Legolas beside him, Estel was certain of that.  There was no one else so lovely in all Middle Earth.  Who, then, did his friend think Estel had mistook him for?  "I know who you are," the youth protested indignantly, tripping over his feet and sending them both tumbling into his room and onto the floor.  Legolas moved gracefully onto his knees – a frown marring his perfect face – but did not respond as he tenderly divested Elrond's son of his royal garb and fetched a sleep robe from the nearby dresser.  Naked and sitting on a cold floor, Estel's teeth chattered, the fog in his mind clearing the slightest bit.  Then warm, sure hands helped him to his feet and soft material slipped over his head and fell to the ground.  Legolas lightly brushed the dark hair back from Estel's face before guiding him to the soft, wonderful bed.

"Drink this," the prince commanded quietly, lifting Estel's head and administering the vial of sweet smelling liquid.  Estel grimaced – though it smelled sweet, it tasted of bitter herbs – but accepted it, and sighed contentedly as Legolas tucked the blankets under his chin.  The mattress shifted as his friend sat beside him, and Estel struggled to focus on Legolas' warm touch instead of the darkness slowly enveloping him.  "Where does your heart lie?" the elven prince wondered, his tone subdued as he stroked the drowsy youth's brow.  Estel frowned, unable to comprehend why his friend sounded so sad.

"In my breast," he replied hesitantly, listening for the pulse to make certain he spoke true.  Legolas' small sigh told him that – true or not – he had not answered aright.

"'Tis not what I meant," came the mild response, but Legolas did not explain himself and Estel was too tired to make sense of anything but the lyrical tones of the elf's speech.  Still, he wanted to understand.  As if sensing his friend's turmoil, Legolas rubbed the frown from Estel's face with compassionate hands.  "Sleep now," whispered the prince, and Estel obediently snuggled deeper into his bedding, yawning in exhaustion.  It was only when he was almost asleep that Legolas spoke again, and he was too tired to register the hushed words.  "I would that it did, my friend," came Legolas' hushed voice, hands still threading unconsciously through Estel's dark hair.  "I would that your heart lay in your breast and that the sun would rise and set over us as she has these past five years."  He sighed, and his dark green eyes filled with pain.  "But I fear that it is not to be.  I fear that our time draws ever nearer to its end."  The elf's velvety voice broke as he uttered the last words, and his pale face spoke of a sorrow that would have made the strongest man weep.  But Estel slept, and did not know.

TBC  (That's chapter four, folks.  Things speed up – and go a little screwy – in chapter five.  So, uh, grab a helmet.  Or something.  But review first!)


	5. Rude Awakenings

            Chapter Five: Rude Awakenings

            Author's Notes: Okay, most of this is probably already common knowledge, but I'll mention it just to be certain this chapter makes sense.  Celebrían – Elrond's wife – was tortured by orcs in TA 2510.  So Elladan and Elrohir have a bit of a grudge against them – and I'm severely under-exaggerating.  That's about all you need to know.  And thank you to everyone who reviewed; I appreciate all of them!  Sorry this chapter took so long.

~*~

            The next day dawned early, the first pale light of day bursting into Estel's room along with a dressed – and armed – Silvan elf.  Legolas strode efficiently over to his slumbering friend's bedside, followed closely by the man's elven brothers.  Bending at the waist, the archer stretched out one slender hand and grasped Estel's shoulder, shaking the young man gently but hastily awake.  Gray eyes fluttered blearily open, still groggy from the medicine of the previous night, and Legolas' earnest voice pierced Estel's drowsy daze.  "You must wake up, my friend," the prince declared urgently, and Elladan and Elrohir seconded the motion by tickling their brother's bare feet.  Estel kicked at them and focused on Legolas, trying to recall what had happened the night before.  Had he done something wrong, and was being called before his father?

"Orcs have been spotted between Rivendell and Mirkwood," he told Elrond's foster son, anxiety for both kingdoms darkening his face.  Those words made the mortal shoot out of bed – not in trouble, then – and spare no time in throwing on a few clothes while Legolas informed him of the situation.  Modesty would have to wait for another time.  The orcs would not reach the Last Homely House – not while they still lived.  "My father's messenger returned late this past night, an arrow in his thigh."  Slipping a traveling tunic over his head, Estel gave Legolas a questioning stare.  "He will be fine," Legolas answered gratefully, understanding what Estel had been asking.  "He could give us no sure report," the elven warrior relayed brusquely, waiting only for Estel to put on his boots before gesturing them all onto the balcony, "as it was very dark when they attacked.  Still, he seems to think there are fewer than a dozen."  Crouching on the edge of the balcony, Legolas swung his head back to grin at the three brothers, golden hair glowing like fire with the rising sun.

"A dozen orcs," he said powerfully, "are no match for the four of us.  Come on!"  And with that rallying cry he leapt off of the palace gallery and into the air, lithe body twisting as he fell – to land fluidly on his waiting horse, and look expectantly at the Peredhil children.  Letting out war whoops of their own, the Half-elven twins jumped simultaneously over the balustrade and onto their own mounts.  Estel leaned over the ledge for a moment, letting Legolas' steady gaze clear his mind for the task ahead.  Then, lifting his closed fist into the air in a victorious gesture, he gave a fierce shout and stopped off the balcony.  He and the blonde prince shared a brief smile as Elladan and Elrohir took the lead, then urged their steeds quickly on.  They would fight for Rivendell this day, three elves and a man.  Four royal children, and four warriors.  The orcs stood no chance against them.

~*~

            And the victory might have been as effortless as that, if there had been no more than the twelve orcs they had anticipated.  However, either the Mirkwood envoy had purposefully tricked them – which was doubtful – or the elf had no grasp of numbers, for there were at least thirty of the ugly beasts trampling through the wood in search of . . . something.  Likely one of the elf havens.  Elladan and Elrohir's eyes glittered dangerously, and Legolas grabbed them both by the collars to prevent them from simply charging into the fray.  "I know your thirst for vengeance runs deep," he murmured roughly to them, and Estel admired the prince's ability to shed his gaiety and cheer to lead them all, "but this is not a mere orc hunt.  These beasts threaten our kingdoms and our families, and we can not afford to get ourselves killed because we attacked foolishly."

Though the twins' grip on their swords did not loosen, they nodded in agreement.  They were listening to him.  That, Elrond's youngest son knew, was remarkable in its rarity.  Elladan and Elrohir had seen their mother Celebrían tortured by orcs, and after her departure for Valinor had made a pact to rid Middle Earth of their kind.  They hunted the foul creatures with an intensity that bordered on fanatical, and Elrond had banned Estel from accompanying his brothers until he was sixteen out of fear for his mortal son's safety.  Even after he was of an age to orc hunt with the twins it seemed to worry his foster father so that eventually he began to refuse his brothers when they asked his company.  Elladan and Elrohir appeared almost relieved by his dismissal, and Estel did not doubt that they were.  He – or anyone – could only slow them down, for when chasing orcs the two elves ate little and rested not at all.  In respect and deference to Legolas – who had been raised in the ways of war – Estel's brothers held their swords.

They did not, however, hold their tongues, as both immediately turned on the elf prince and began arguing the virtue of leaping into the fray.  Arguing near a small army of orcs, it suddenly became clear, was not a very good idea.  Especially when the arguing was being done rather loudly – Elrond's sons really never had learned to whisper.  Legolas looked up barely in time to dodge the black fletched arrow headed straight for his heart, and Estel felt his breath catch as he spurred his mount to the prince's side.  If Legolas died, then he would follow.  Elladan and Elrohir instantly left off protesting, instead disregarding Legolas' orders entirely and charging into the heart of the orc army, terrifying and vengeful, felling everything in their paths.  Legolas and Estel were only slightly more subdued, for they were surrounded by the wretched creatures on all sides.

It did not take long to realize that – despite the fury of the twins and the skill of all four – there were simply too many orcs for them to fight.  Where one fell, another took his place.  Their numbers seemed inexhaustible – and all of them had targeted Estel.  Legolas noticed it before he did, and the prince's cry drew even Elladan and Elrohir from their rage as he called them to protect their brother.  Turning, they saw – as did Estel – the multitude of orcs lusting for his blood.  And they remembered that there are some things more important than vengeance, some ties stronger than those of hate, but it was too late and the gap between them too wide.

They could only watch in horror as the youngest prince of Mirkwood fought two orcs from atop his horse, unable to see beyond the immediate threat to the dark arrow spiraling towards him.  There was nothing they could do to stop their foster brother, who cut down his own opponent and lifted his head to glimpse the danger Legolas was in.  A warning, Estel realized, would come too late.  With a fierce, desperate cry he threw himself into his friend, toppling them both to the ground as the orc shaft embedded itself in his skin.  From far away he heard one of the twins – Elladan – shout, "Arathorn!" and wondered whom his brother was calling to.  Nearer, closer above him, Legolas drew his daggers and tried hopelessly to defend him from the fast converging army.  Darkness blurred his vision, but Estel shook it away – biting down on the overwhelming pain – when he saw Legolas knocked to the ground.

The pain became unimportant when he saw that his friend made no move to rise, and he had to swallow down the fear that threatened to choke him before crying out to the twins.  The voice that left his lips was cracked and jumbled, but it did not matter anyway, for the two identical elves sat frozen on their stallions, Elladan's mouth still slightly parted.  Who was Arathorn, that his brother had called to him?  And where was Legolas?  Estel had only enough time to catch a glimpse of long, golden hair before rough hands closed over him and darkness engulfed his senses.  He dreamed of death, and of a man that wore his face.

TBC – When Legolas and the twins have a . . . conversation.


	6. Stories and Secrets

            Title: The Middle Days; Chapter Six – Stories and Secrets

            Author's Note:  All right, in about twenty seconds (after you've finished reading this note) you're all probably going to want to kill me.  I apologize (and hide) in advance.  As a peace offering, this chapter is very long.  (At least, compared to the last few.)  And it does explain a few things – though **dshael** already guessed one of them in a review.  The problem is, it will be the last update for quite awhile.  A case of writer's block means that I have nothing else to post at this moment, and I'm not going to see another computer for at least a few weeks.  This means the next update will be in the somewhat distant future.  I am incredibly sorry for the delay – please don't kill me – but there's not a lot I can do.  And no, I don't torture you guys on purpose.  I love all the reviews, and hey, entertain yourselves by guessing what's going to happen next.  *sigh*  Well, it was worth a shot, no?  Anyway, now that I've finished babbling, enjoy the chapter and forgive me for not being able to get the next one out sooner.  Have a good summer!

~*~

            As soon as he regained consciousness Legolas made for the orc trail, undeterred by his mount's absence or the pain in his side.  He pressed one hand over the gaping wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, half running half falling in his haste to catch them.  In his haste to find Estel.  He made it to the edge of the clearing before collapsing, and whimpered angrily when he found that he could not rise.  Elladan – the better healer of the twins – moved to help him, but as he touched Legolas' side the blonde elf flinched and rolled away.  When he looked at Elrond's two sons, his green eyes were blazing with suppressed fury.  Swallowing hard under that gaze, Elladan put out a calming hand.  "Legolas," he said slowly, evenly, "your wound needs binding."  Snarling at him – which in itself startled Elladan into silence – the usually mild elf spat in his face.

The twins gaped at him, while Legolas shook blood and earth stained hair away from his face.  "We haven't time," he gritted out, steeling himself against the agony in his side.  "Your sluggishness has cost us enough today, and I will not let it cost us Estel's life.  I will not."  His declaration was firm and his accusations well aimed, for neither Elladan nor Elrohir could meet his gaze.  However, as Legolas again struggled to his feet and stood there swaying like a reed in the breeze, Elladan took it upon himself to argue.

"I am eldest," he told Legolas, holding his head like a son of Elrond, "and though you are the better commander I am the better healer.  If we hunt down Estel's captors now, you will not survive the rescue.  Lay down, prince of Mirkwood, and hear wisdom."  Grudgingly, Legolas dropped back down to the grass, his face white with pain.  Elladan hurriedly sent his younger brother out in search of herbs, and crouched beside the wounded elf to tend to him.  Gentle, sure hands slipped off the tunic soaked with blood, hissing as he caught sight of how far the injury ran.  Legolas glowered at him.

"Do you plan to admire it," he ground out irritably, "or treat it?"  Elladan gave a long-suffering sigh, and told Legolas he hoped the prince would faint again.  One look at Legolas' rigid face made him regret it.  The archer ignored him, falling silent for a moment – except for his ragged breathing – then paralyzed Elrond's heir with his next question.  "Why," Legolas panted harshly, "did you call out for 'Arathorn'?"

Elladan focused very hard on ripping the stained tunic into binding strips, lifting one shoulder in a delicate dismissal.  "I was calling for Estel," he replied, staring at the ground.  "You must have misheard."

Legolas scowled, rising stiffly to one elbow until he had Elladan's full attention.  "I do _not_ mishear," the prince denied icily, and the elder elf worriedly helped him back to the ground.

Elladan's jaw trembled slightly, and his eyes darted away.  "Why," he queried lightly, "would I say such a name?  Who is Arathorn, that I would call to him?"  The warrior was not put off by the inquiries, and began to look frustrated by his companion's equivocations.

"I do not ask for your diplomatic lies," Legolas told Elladan, his voice regal if strained.  "You and your brother were as stone on the field today, and I would know why.  As to the bearer of the name you cried, do not think me ignorant merely because I am a forgotten prince.  Arathorn was the son of Arador and the husband to Gilraen, the once ward of your father.  He was the fifteenth and final Chieftain of the Dúnedain."  Legolas closed his eyes briefly in a sign of respect and grief for the ended line of kings, then opened them to stare fiercely at a defeated Elladan.

Folding his legs, the eldest son of Lord Elrond settled beside the wounded prince, speaking honestly.  "Elrohir and I have failed in our duty to both you and Estel, and it is your right to know why."  He paused, and Legolas listened avidly to his reluctant words.  "Arathorn II was indeed the ward of my father, as you have said, and also the dear friend of my brother and myself.  When he came of age he returned to the north, wedded Gilraen, and took his place among the Dúnedain as their chief."  Elladan again grew silent, and his smooth face projected an aged grief.  For once there was no youthful cheer in his grey eyes.  "This was during the time of the orc raids, and I and Elrohir were sent to aid the West men in their defense.  Arathorn came hunting with us one day, and we . . . we were too intent on our quarry, and not on the safety of our friend."  Legolas' hand slid into Elladan's, and he accepted the comfort gratefully.  "He was shot with an orc arrow," narrated the dark haired elf mournfully, "and fell dead before we could even reach his side."  Elladan's voice grew hoarse, and he shook his head.  "We thought that we had learned from his death, but when we saw Estel so far from us we realized we had been wrong.  It would have been the same mistake, all over again."  Legolas' gaze was sympathetic, but he wore a soft frown.

"The same?" he echoed confusedly.  "Because Estel is a man?"  Elladan looked unwilling to reply, but a voice equal to his took up the task.

"Because he is Arathorn's son," said Elrohir as he strode to meet them, eyes flashing, "and the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

Legolas could do little more than stare at the younger twin in astonishment, and Elladan turned angrily on his brother.  "Have you no sense," he cried crossly, "to say that here, where anyone could hear you?"  Elrohir snorted, handing the herbs to his brother and moving to Legolas' other side.

"There is no one ignorant here but Legolas," he declared.  "Why do you think that they targeted Estel so?"  Realization paled Elladan's face, and his hand tightened over the athelas plant Elrohir had brought.

Legolas opened his mouth, forgetting about his pain with this new revelation as he looked up at Elrohir.  "Estel?" he murmured weakly, and Elrohir shook his head in understanding.

"His name is Aragorn II, son of Arathorn II and Gilraen.  He was two when his sire was slain, and we brought him to my father for safekeeping."  Legolas felt his head spinning, and fought to maintain his composure as Elladan contradicted his twin.

"He is Estel of the elves, and our brother," countered the elder of them heatedly, "and that is all that matters."

For once the more reasonable of the two, Elrohir said firmly, "It is not all that matters, brother.  Not when his true name has been discovered."  Elladan set his mouth in a tight line and began dressing Legolas' wound as his sibling attempted to reason with him.  "He is almost of the age of majority in any case," argued Elrohir, "and must be told the truth of his heritage in no more than a few months."  He stopped, glancing to the beaten path of the orcs, and his unspoken meaning was clear.  Estel – Aragorn would have to be told, if he lived long enough for them to tell.  "Besides," added the younger twin sincerely, "even if none of this were true, Legolas still deserves to know."  At those words Elrohir glanced meaningfully down at the blonde prince, and Elladan conceded to his brother with a sad nod.

"It is of no import to me," Legolas stated staunchly, spitting out the numbing herbs Elladan had had him chew that he could speak.  "He is still Estel, as he has always been.  It does not change him, this new title.  It does not make him less kind, or more generous.  It will not make his eyes any brighter, or his heart purer to me."

Silence followed Legolas' candid declaration, and even Elladan paused in his binding to listen to the words.  "You love him," Elrohir asked softly, his voice more subdued than Legolas had expected, "don't you?"

The prince looked away, green eyes flickering with pain of a different mean.  "Of course I love him," replied Legolas, his mellifluous voice a little rough.  "Do not we all?  He is Estel."  Elladan inclined his head in respectful agreement – and an acceptance of a dishonesty Legolas would not admit to.

Elrohir, however, either did not understand that Legolas wished the matter to be dropped, or simply decided not to acquiesce to that wish.  "I should hope I do not love him as you do," the younger twin protested with a knowing grin.  His brother pinched him in the leg and set about assisting Legolas to his unsteady feet.

The injured warrior rose shakily, his otherwise sickly white countenance stained with two spots of red at Elrohir's words.  "I–" the prince began heatedly, but his protest was stifled by Elladan's speech

"You would deny it?" the elder twin queried reproachfully, grey eyes – less dear to Legolas than their mortal counterpart's – daring the flaxen elf to say them wrong.  Legolas looked away.

"Have you known then," he questioned, his down turned face tense with mortification, "all this time?"  And he spoke as if he had loved Estel for centuries, had longed after the man for more years than any of them had seen.  Elrohir and Elladan – who still stood behind Legolas to support him – exchanged surprised glances at those words.  Confusion clear in his immortal eyes, the more open of the two brothers hesitantly replied.

"We have suspected," Elrohir admitted somewhat perplexedly.  He was about to add that they had hoped so as well, but Legolas' voice cut the twin off before he could speak.

"You knew," a startled Legolas echoed, "and yet allowed me to remain?"  Elrohir wrinkled his nose, looking to his brother for an interpretation.  Elladan, however, seemed no less bewildered than his sibling.

"What cause would we have to send you away?" wondered Legolas' crutch uncomprehendingly, his expression mirrored on his younger brother's face.

"Because," Legolas answered them mechanically, the words tumbling from his lips in a recitation that – though just known – seemed long used, "though it is hubris enough to desire the son of Elrond, it is that much worse to seek after the Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

Elladan sighed, and Elrohir hastily retorted: "I thought that they were one and the same to you, Prince."  Legolas did not lift his head, but his obvious disapproval closed Elrohir's quick mouth.

"To me they are the same," Mirkwood's last prince replied wearily, sounding like the tutor of a dull witted child.  "But there are others who would not view it so."

Though momentarily quiet, Elrohir never remained so for very long.  Elladan flinched as his brother unthinkingly argued: "But you are an elf – as well as a prince – and Estel is but a man."  And it was lucky for Elrond's son that the elf he spoke to was injured and being held by his brother, for otherwise a finely wrought dagger would have been placed edgewise on his throat.

As it was, Legolas appeared more than ready to strangle the unwitting twin with his bare hands.  "How dare you say that!" cried Legolas furiously, struggling to get away from Elladan and convict Elrohir of his words.  The dark haired elf realized what he had said, and tried to stammer out an apology.  Legolas would have none of it.  "How dare you even let such a thought enter your mind!" he shouted weakly, pushing away from the elder twin to advance shakily on a repentant Elrohir.  "It is because of lies and slurs such as those that Estel believes himself inferior to us all.  It is because of all those like you – who cannot see that he is more wonderful than even the greatest of elves – that he will not confess his heart to the maiden he loves."  Exhausted, one hand pressed over his healing wound, Legolas swayed where he stood between the two freshly stymied brothers.

"_What_ maiden?" they both shrieked at once, tossing their heads in identical displays of distress and disbelief.  Legolas set his teeth against the pain and straightened, standing like a true prince of Mirkwood thought his chest was bare but for the binding and the wound it covered.

"Estel is in love," Legolas said sharply, pretending to attribute the suffering on his face to his injury and not his torn soul.

"Yes," replied Elladan, confused and insistent, "with _you_."  Elrohir scratched his head, nodding in agreement to his brother's words and attempting to puzzle out the source of Legolas' misguided thoughts about maiden loves.

"You do," he said finally, warily, "look a little feminine, but certainly no one would mistake you for a maid."  Leoglas glared darkly at him, and Elladan elbowed him in the side.

"You're mistaken," the prince said to Elladan, choosing the more favorable option of simply ignoring Elrohir.  "Estel would have told me of this."

It was Elrohir who replied, and his brother's eyes flashed in agreement.  "As you told him?" returned the younger twin gently, and Legolas blushed.  He made as if to argue, then stopped abruptly in mid-word, face darkening with worry as he looked toward the south, where the grass had been trampled by an army of orcs.

"What is it?" inquired Elladan, looking also that way and seeing nothing but the silent trees.

"It is Estel," Legolas murmured distantly, tilting his head to better listen to an unknown noise.  "He is calling for us."

The twins' light grey eyes went wide.  "You can hear him?" Elrohir breathed astonishedly, "but that means –"

Legolas cut him off, the expression in his green eyes final and unyielding.  "It means nothing," he corrected harshly; the trembling of his hands proving – like the twins' eyes – that it was not the truth.  "Nothing but that he is in need of aid, and we must spare no more time."  With that final declaration Legolas turned to the orc trail, maintaining an elf taught lope in spite of his wounded side.  Giving each other one last meaningful look – Legolas had heard him – the coëval brothers swiftly followed the prince of Mirkwood down the freshly trodden path, leaving no footprints behind.


End file.
